


The Sky Yet Holds

by LilyRosetheDreamer



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Demons, Ghosts, I Tried, M/M, Other characters mentioned - Freeform, Skyhold goes bump in the night, Spirits, Stephano IS the Inquisitor btw, wanted to know what Skyhold being haunted would be like
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-14
Updated: 2019-07-14
Packaged: 2020-06-28 09:10:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19809196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LilyRosetheDreamer/pseuds/LilyRosetheDreamer
Summary: Cole knows that Skyhold is home to those who cannot rest. Not all remain welcome, however, and Solas and Dorian may have their work cut out for them.





	The Sky Yet Holds

**Author's Note:**

> My second Dragon Age fic and things get a little spooky in Skyhold this time! Hope you all like it.

Cole knew that Skyhold was an old fortress. The intimidating stone spoke to him from the moment he arrived, beyond eager to divulge its history after spending so long in silent, snowy solitude. It spoke of life, of death (“ _I’m sorry Vidan”_ ), of moments in between ( _a servant and a lady crashed into each other and laughed in embarrassment, apologies turning into wedding vows and the cries of young life_ ), of safety shrouded in the frozen mountains and of war, of an ancient god leaving and never returning ( _Where did He go? Why had He forsaken them? Where was the memory of His face?_ ). The trees whispered their own tales, their own slow, pondering observations cast into the wind as he sat comfortably in or under their branches and Cole listened to them too. It helped them to have someone finally understand, to _listen_ so he did. The castle groaned with relief every time its crumbling mossy ruins were replaced with something sturdy, like an old man getting treatment for a backache. He also moved the turnip sacks in the warm kitchen so the sooty cat could have her children in peace and told the inattentive blacksmith’s apprentice that his swords should be sharper. These things helped and nourished his Compassion, was better than any drink The Iron Bull offered him.

He also noticed that Skyhold was haunted.

Spirits haunted Thedas regularly, an overwhelming majority made up of those who once lived and breathed. Some changed and became more or less than what they were, but the shock of their deaths kept them bound to the earth when they should be dancing in the Fade. Not the green hellish Fade, the _real_ Fade, where the fields never stopped flowering and the balmy summer never ended.

Cole had walked that Fade.

He loved that Fade.

The spirits of Skyhold were no exception, regardless of the beauty of the Fade. Some had unfinished tasks, a mournful longing. Many died in war, drawing back to the safety of the fortress that still made sense to them. Some didn’t even understand that and twisted their shapes until they made no sense to anyone at all. Cole always saw them in the corners of his mirror-like eyes whenever he turned his pale head and he kept them there sometimes to soothe them a while. The autumn air refreshed these spirits and he walked among them, keeping that part of himself even through his recent change. He talked and sent some to the other side finally as gently as he could, chastised others for keeping their loved ones waiting. The spirits of the dead might have looked wrong, but they weren’t here to hurt, to prolong suffering, so Cole left those he could not persuade to dwell, watchful and spokesman for them when needed.

It was rarely needed.

Solas knew of them too, wise and Fade-touched elf that he was. Cole could never quite grasp hold of him and suspected that the bald elf would never let him.

It was no matter.

What Cole trusted him to do was help the spirit of Compassion keep an eye on the spirits that resided in Skyhold, the unshakeable castle full of fragile people that scurried like ants to heal those gaping wounds. Cole ached to keep them safe.

Solas did just that and all were content.

All was well.

Until it wasn’t.

* * *

Cole wasn’t sure what startled him out of his trance at first. A nug burrowed into loamy soil down in the main courtyard, sending bits of brown flying just left of Cassandra’s favourite training spot. The dummies were abandoned for the moment, the Seeker sat with the Commander ( _he’s burning again_ ) in his spacious office. He tilted his head, considered the cute pink creature (he was going to hug it later) and shook himself to full awareness. It wasn’t the nug.

The breeze cupped his cheeks in cool fingers, and he kept his head tilted as he closed his eyes on the sturdy battlements. He never feared falling off, though Varric often thought he should. Perhaps he forgot that Cole was still hardier than most despite his new-found humanity. Something crept in to seize hold of his ribs and spine, give them a good squeeze and fill them with ice. He concentrated on that feeling and followed it southwards, though his physical form yet remained still. To fly and reach out was to centre himself, to make sure that he didn’t make contact just yet, for one would never know what they would see at the other end. Dread curdled at the bottom of his stomach, instead of his usual curiosity.

He knew this feeling.

Demons were by far the easiest to sense; a torrent of rage exploding behind his eyes or sucking, pulling despair that tried to lure him down into dark waters. Cole never went with them, no matter how hard they tried or how human he was now. Demons were the easiest because they kept begging for attention – it was all they craved, all they had knowledge for. The taste of the sins kept them coming back.

These, however, were not demons.

The recently dead lingered by the great steel gates that opened on to the expansive wooden drawbridge. They wailed past the few stalls set up next to the stables (Blackwall wasn’t there, he was with Stephano, Sera, The Iron Bull and Madam de Fer, good), sent the animals in there shrieking and kicking to the confusion of Horsemaster Dennet and peered into the healing room, if it could be called that ( _too small, they needed more room_ ). Recently-deceased were always the ones Cole was wariest of. The shock did not disperse straight away and while some calmed and remained tethered to their identities and attachments as they became acquainted with death, others threw all their concepts away and panicked, remaining out of sheer spite. Those were the ones that hurt and dealt the hurt out in lashes that sank under Cole’s skin.

Those were the ones to be concerned about.

And the newly-dead that arrived at this moment came in cold torrents, making the living shiver and draw their garments in a little closer, though they knew not why. Everyone always said demons were worse, because they knew what they sought for.

These spirits had already decided and did not know where to turn.

Cole withdrew back to himself before they could become aware of his presence, resigned yet determined. The resident spirits were growing agitated already and the cat behind the turnip sacks hissed protectively over her litter. The interlopers were causing a fuss, a prelude to a vicious campaign and Cole sighed.

He could not defend Skyhold alone, despite how much he wanted to. It wasn’t fair to burden others after all, but realistically the Lady Cassandra told him it was good to ask for help, her voice kind, and he would honour her words. Besides, there were unfortunately too many.

Cole stood, pulled down his hat, and slipped away out of sight in the direction of the main hall, moving like liquid shadow towards Solas’ rotunda. Solas would not be pleased but Cole did not care about that one wit.

At least, he tried to tell himself that.

* * *

Solas was not certainly _not_ pleased, though not quite for the reasons Cole had thought.

“You are certain of this, Cole?” he asked wearily from his crouched position on his scaffolding. The paintbrush he’d been working with lay reluctantly forgotten on the plate next to him and there were smudges of black on his fingers and left cheek. It made him look less distant, more alive somehow.

“Yes,” Cole answered quickly from his perch on Solas’ desk, his hands wringing together. “They’re tangling, testing the waters, agitating the animals. Rosie is already afraid,”

Rosie was a small elvhen child who died too soon and who they’d both grown fond of. She had big eyes and liked to move the crumpled papers on Solas’ pillow. To think of her so scared…

Solas’ lips thinned out and he descended, sliding down the oak ladder to move to Cole’s side.

“The air felt different today,” he admitted, picking up a clean cloth and wiping his hands with it. He forgot his cheek, absently dropping the cloth on to his chair. “I wasn’t sure of its origin, but then again…”

He gestured almost apologetically to the mural. He got so very absorbed in those murals, his thoughts skipping and hopping between recent events and sightings in the Fade, gleaning as much information with a fine comb as he could. It was very therapeutic most days.

Cole smiled despite his nervous energy. He often regarded Solas’ passion for history with an old, fond air – then again nobody knew precisely how old Cole was.

“It’s because of them,” he muttered, expression darkening. It made him look suddenly dangerous, something people often forgot Cole could be.

More fool them.

“It’s only a matter of time before they start hurting people, Solas. Fragile, tempting, just a taste won’t hurt, _I want to live again!_ ”

This last outburst startled them both and Cole tensed, grim under the rim of his beloved hat. If Cole was so worried…

Solas’ gut started to churn as he extended his senses cautiously. He was hit with a wall of nausea and blinked rapidly, his palm steadying him against the desk as he thanked the Fade for his wards.

“That’s…there’s more than I expected,”

“There’s more death than usual,” Cole quipped and Solas glanced at him sharply.

“Perhaps you should consider spending less time around Varric,”

“No, I like Varric,”

Oh well, he tried. Maybe another day.

But Cole was right to let him know. The people of Skyhold were varied in every way and that included their mental and spiritual strength. Some, like Dagna and Horsemaster Dennet, were like brick walls. Others however…if a spirit tried to pry apart their mind, to haunt their every waking moment and even attempted a possession, it could cause untold chaos; especially with so many spirits flocking like this.

“You need to move them,” Cole broke the silence, his hands stroking the top of his hat. “Tell them to go on. I can help with a few, wind them away, but there are too many. _Wishing, desperate but where is Sophie?”_

He seemed so sorrowful and Solas placed a hand on his thin shoulder.

“That alone will lighten the burden considerably, thank you Cole,”

Cole stared and then beamed, lightening the heavy atmosphere in the rotunda. He was like the sun when he helped others.

“You shouldn’t do it alone either,”

“I think I’ll manage, Cole.” He replied in amusement. “I’ve done these cleansing rituals many times, even in my sleep,”

Solas wasn’t actually joking about that.

Cole shook his head, his face already set in that way that said he was going to push his point because he needed to help, consequences be damned. He was getting better at restraining that, but it cropped up still. He could no more deny his nature than Solas could his, despite the dwarf merchant’s meddling.

“You should ask Dorian to help you,”

Solas looked askance, his eyebrows traveling up his rather wide forehead.

“You want me to perform a cleansing ritual with _Dorian_? The mage from Tevinter who told me quite casually the other day that his kind use spirits as servants? _That_ Dorian?”

Solas knew he sounded rather unreasonable and he didn’t necessarily hate the other mage, but Dorian was nowhere _near_ his equal.

Neither was anybody else, but he digressed.

Cole remained surprisingly unmoved, although it was no secret that he liked Dorian as well. The Inner Circle were terrible influences on the boy, Solas thought.

“He asks for permission now,”

Solas was not prepared for that response.

“What?”

“That conversation troubled him, upset him. Dorian doesn’t want to be like them, so he talks to the spirits now. He asks them permission and one always says yes,”

Cole’s expression was far away, seeing somewhere else.

“Dorian is a necromancer. He can help,”

Solas digested this information, then picked up his staff from where it leant against the chaise lounge Josephine thoughtfully set aside for him in the beginning of the restoration. She somehow seemed to think of everything and everyone – she would have made a formidable mage in another life.

“I’d best go find the source. Some may have traveled here physically but the numbers indicate a weakening in the Veil,” he said quietly as though the topic was over. Which it was.

Cole’s shoulders slumped at the dismissal (as well as a strange indignation on Dorian’s behalf) but jumped off the desk and followed the apostate anyway.

There was little said between them as they traversed Skyhold together, too focused on using a useful combination of Cole’s spiritual senses and Solas’ guiding magic (mostly a rather charming spell in the Spirit category Solas dubbed “Seek”) to pinpoint the location of the source. Nobody disturbed them apart from one timid apprentice mage, who asked politely if Solas needed anything, and was told politely that nothing was needed. No sense in being rude to her, even when it caused the elf frustration to waste time. The sun wore on in the sky as they finally were drawn under the castle, the natural afternoon light receding as they descended the stone steps. Cole twisted to look back longingly for a moment before carrying on, his jaw tight. The regeneration had not ventured this far down yet, and the area remained abandoned, save the crackling energy leeching the moisture from the air. Cole shifted as they stepped into shallow, stale water. A dead rat floated past, half rotting bone at this point, and the spirit winced with empathy written in his eyes. Solas almost strolled through the wet darkness, his elvhen eyes glowing as his superior vision kicked in. Cole drifted beside him, lured to the epicentre as Solas was.

The elf’s lungs felt overly big, as though they were compensating to make up for the abrupt lack of oxygen. If there was a rift open here, he might feel breathless.

There was no rift, however.

Instead there was a faint, jagged crack in the middle of a cavernous room, a vein of emerald that undulated like an aurora. The Veil screamed its weakness here, only holding on by a thread and pulsing in time with an outpouring of spirits. Unbothered by the dank surroundings, the spirits pushed and slid out, like seeing a misty river flowing over a waterfall but without the noise and not moving in the way water would. They poured like a fog, frothing at the edges but slippery and spongy looking otherwise. Each spirit barely held a form, so new were they to death. The mist drifted in white fragments round the room, deathly quiet except for a dripping from the damp ceiling. It smelled of rain and rust and while the epicentre made no noise, the whispers started behind them as the spirits rushed away and hurtled up towards the stairs, tired, angry, confused.

It was worse than they’d realised.

Solas gripped his staff and swayed at the intensity. If he wore his wolf mantle, this would have been no concern. The Dread Wolf would have swept it aside with a wave of his tail and hunted onwards. Solas was very much weakened after a thousand year sleep and he hated it passionately.

“Dorian is still here,” Cole remarked gently, his voice hoarse and pleading. “We have to help, please!”

Solas could only summon one rather crude word at the mini catastrophe before him, and at what he needed to do to quell it.

“ ** _Shit_**.”

**Author's Note:**

> And that’s the first chapter! Hopefully this will be well received. Thank you for reading! Also you can’t tell me Dorian didn’t change his attitude towards spirits because I will call bullshit, lol.


End file.
